


Containment

by TianShan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dirty Talk, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Rape Fantasy, Sexual Fantasy, Violent Sex, sex with pipe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TianShan/pseuds/TianShan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old kink meme fill.</p><p>Prompt: "Russia and America are in a happy relationship. One day Russia mistakes Canada for America, and poor lonesome Canada (who hasn't gotten any in a while) goes along with it. Canada has always had loving, tender partners, and assumes that even if this is Russia and America, they're in a loving relationship so their sex should be nice and normal. How wrong he was, those two like it rough. But as much as he desperately wants to, Canada can't say anything without revealing his naughty subterfuge, and forces himself to go along with it."</p><p>In this, "forces" means, "Canada is too aroused by being his brother, and Russia is too good at dirty talk while also beating him up." Will contain mention of Canada/Cuba, Canada/America, America/England/Russia, and basically Russia threatening to sexually take over all of America's allies. 'Cause he's Russia, and that's what a good lover does, da? </p><p>Chapter 2: “You do like!” Russia crowed, obviously thrilled. “All right, we will take your England, your former master, we will take him – I will have him from behind and you can push his head down onto your cock until he gags.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Matt,” America had said to him, in that too-light baby tone with the upswung eyebrows that basically meant the superpower had put his foot in it somehow and was going to make some unreasonable demand on his brother. Canada both loved and loathed these moments, but as he had just settled into his chair with his cup of coffee in one hand and his notes in the other, it was floating rather close to the “loathe” side of the equation.  
  
“Yes?” Canada asked mildly, eyes flicking up from his yellow legal pad to meet America’s, to meet that beguiling gaze. Canada felt all of his defenses crumble before America started – he had always chalked up his abnormally low resistance against his brother to the long kilometers of their open border, but he often wondered how willing America would ever be if Canada made any sort of imposition on  _him_.  
  
America grinned, impossibly wide, and Canada picked up his coffee cup in both hands, watching America through the steam, waiting for-  
  
“Could’ja go back to my room and pick up the transparencies?” America asked, one hand reaching back to scratch at the back of his head.  _At least he has the decency to look sheepish_ , Canada thought. “I forgot them in my room and Prussia can’t figure out how to get the projector to work so I think I should-“  
  
Canada didn’t hear the scathing remark the Prussian directed at America, but definitely caught wind of the heat behind it. America offered another awkward-yet-charming-and-please-help-the-hero smile and Canada was irritated at himself for being able to decode America’s language of endless smiles so well.  
  
“Thanks,” America said to him, understanding Canada’s silence as the one that meant I’m-not-happy-and-you’re-an-idiot-but-fine. As America had his smiles, Canada had his silences, and Canada often expected that America understood Canada better than he ever let on – America just only chose to understand when it suited him, was all.  
  
America had held out the keycard between two fingers. “Room-“  
  
“-427,” Canada interrupted, taking the key and leaving his coffee on the table.  
  
Canada had regretted leaving the coffee when he was waiting on the elevator, but later events being what they were, it was probably best that he’d left the hot drink to cool at his empty seat in his absence.

Of course, America wouldn’t have left his transparencies anywhere obvious. Canada had already burrowed through the crumpled mess in the American’s luggage to no avail. The fact that the pile of clothes smelled too much like sweat and rain and soap and barley did nothing for Canada’s mood as he slammed the heavy leather suitcase shut with a scowl. The suitcase retaliated by releasing a concentrated cloud of the smell in Canada’s direction upon closing, which required a moment of recovery.  
  
The fact that he found his brother’s dirty laundry at equal parts revolting and attractive probably meant there was something wrong with him, but there was naught to be done about it other than screw his head back on straight and keep on pawing through the hotel room for the damn transparencies.  
  
Rifling through the drawers on the unused desk produced nothing; the nightstand had only an unopened copy of Gideon’s Bible to show for Canada’s pains. With a scowl and a grunt Canada stood and turned toward the half-closed door concealing the tiny tiled bathroom. Not that storing office materials in a bathroom made any sort of sense, but did America ever really-  
  
His train of thought was completely derailed by the way a massive force from behind lifted him off his feet and propelled him forward into the thin material of the hollow bathroom door: the door itself slammed backward and the knob cracked into the tile beyond. In fact, Canada was sure that he himself would have been thrown through the door had a thick arm not wedged itself under Canada’s left armpit and yoked his momentum back.  
  
Unfortunately, the hand that saved his body from crashing through the door didn’t do much to prevent his head from cracking against it; he hissed as white spots danced across his vision and was disoriented when that arm turned his body around and pressed Canada’s back against the thin wooden door; he opened his mouth to shout but instead –  
  
Lips. Warm, soft, inviting, wide lips against his own and Canada almost choked on his own surprise. Canada’s eyes blinked open but his glasses had been knocked askew by the assault, and the face was too close for him to focus. At that moment, the face turned and the warm kiss shifted minutely to a more perfect position, lips dovetailing and a tongue sliding past like the cleverest of spies and  _oh_.  
  
A vision of years back, then, of soft sun and warm sand, Havana beach breezes in the air and that kind of carelessness that could only come from free love or overindulgence after an epic hockey win. Dark hands spreading him out like a blanket against the beach, a voice teasing at the sunburn, mouth soothing away the aches – all of them.  
  
_Has it really been that long?_  Canada thought as that tongue flicked across his palate. Almost of their own volition, Canada’s arms shot out and his hands sank into the thick leather shell of a coat over biceps and pulled the other closer and  _oh, God_.  
  
Canada really didn’t mind being invisible most of the time – frankly, after living next door to the America Show for so long, he thought that attention was generally more trouble than it was worth. However…  _constantly_  being overlooked was insulting, frankly, and, really, was he that forgettable? He was courteous, he didn’t cause problems, was relatively even tempered and had some nice scenery, besides.  
  
_That’s your problem_ , America had told him once when they were drunk after a hockey game and Canada had gotten his fill of gloating.  _Since when did nice get anybody anywhere?_  
  
The kiss broke with a deep rumble from Canada’s assailant, and the kiss broke with a wet noise. Another amused noise from the other as a hand worked its way out from Canada’s grip to lovingly adjust Canada’s crooked glasses.  
  
“So  _nice_  today, da?” Russia asked from his looming position, voice so happy that Canada was surprised it didn’t sparkle through the air, “Last time I took you from behind, you kick me so hard in shin it hurt for two months!”

“Uh,” was what Canada managed, about seven metric tons of realization hitting him at once.  
  
First, America and Russia were, well, dating. This wasn’t news to anybody in particular, but every time the subject was hinted at England would go purple in the face like he’d had apoplexy, and France would emit the most horrifically amused giggle. Most every other country’s reaction was somewhere along those lines, but Canada had kept his silence. Frankly, America and Russia had been fucking with each other for  _years_  and Canada was just happy they’d taken it off the world stage and into the bedroom.  
  
Second, Canada knew that he had an unhappy tendency to be constantly mistaken for his older, far more boisterous brother. This despite the fact that their haircuts were nothing alike, they had different colored eyes, and Canada was  _undoubtedly_  taller. Yet, nobody else seemed to notice these obvious facts, just as nobody else really seemed to notice that Canada existed at all.  
  
“So quiet!” Russia went on in that disturbing sparkle-voice. It was at this moment that Canada realized that he was actually being suspended off the ground, pinned against the door and Russia’s bulk, held immobile by dark purple eyes that were disturbingly so like his own. “You become like your brother, da? The one that is so quiet and meek I sit on him at every meeting and he does nothing?”  
  
_Say something, say something_ , Canada’s rational mind screamed, because it was obvious what was going on here. It was obvious, and Russia’s smile widened at his continued stunned silence and nobody had touched Canada in so long-  
  
It was in that moment when Russia took his lips again and Canada moved along with the urgings of the larger nation – the  _only_  larger nation – and Canada lost himself in heat and wet and slide and bliss. Maybe this was why America grinned, winked, and flipped the subject like a flapjack whenever the subject of him and Russia came up – no doubt, the Slav was a surprisingly good kisser. It wouldn’t be totally out of character for America to be embarrassed about gentle sex, particularly with one whom he’d been at odds with for so long.  
  
And then Canada thought about his brother pinned under Russia, rolled open and wide and submitting to the touch of the other, writhing under large, gentle fingers and an accented voice. The loud moans, the scent of sweat and rain and soap and barley-  
  
Canada turned his head away from Russia, breaking the kiss, and the next words were a total mistake, for they were all American and entirely false. “Damn Commie,” Canada whispered in his brother’s intonation, the strange little stress on the A, the swagger on the upswing of the sentence that was all bravada and everything that made his people roll their eyes and whisper  _stupid Yank_  when there was no one around to hear.  
  
_That’s it_ , Canada thought at the little insane chuckle from Russia above him,  _I’m going to hell_.  
  
And he wasn’t wrong, not exactly.  
  
Russia smiled at him beatifically for a moment longer, before his hand slid back and he backhanded Canada, hard, Canada’s head snapping to the side with the blow.  
  
Canada gasped in surprise – sharp pain hit a moment later - and would have fallen over had Russia still not been pinning him up. Russia’s hand fisted in the back of Canada’s hair and pulled him forward and off the door and down: still disoriented by the pain in his mouth and the cooling wetness on his lips from the kiss, Canada’s knees didn’t catch and he dropped down hard to the Berber carpet.  
  
Staring blankly at the lower half of Russia’s coat, hearing nothing but the thud of his heartbeat in his ears and his own disbelief whirling in his head, he missed Russia’s noise of consideration above him.

“Today it is  _that_  day, da?” Russia asked with that light glitter tone that was entirely at odds with the vicious throbbing on Canada’s left cheek. His fingers clenched in Canada’s hair so forcefully some of it came out at the root and Canada’s neck strained back with the Russian’s pull, a soft noise escaping his throat at the harshness of the angle.  
  
“ _Kakoe Amerikanetz_ ,” Russia whispered down to him, the hand that didn’t hold a death grip on Canada’s hair drifting down slowly – Canada instinctively tried to flinch away, but the movement only pulled more hair from his head and Russia’s touch was gentle, as it was. Soft fingers ghosted across the side of Canada’s face, stroking the area that Russia had just struck so tenderly that Canada’s eyes fluttered shut, and he wanted to cry.  
  
Instead, he felt his cock start to stir to life with the gentle caress, and his head tilted slightly into Russia’s easy, soft motions.  
  
When Russia’s bulk knelt in a loud rustle of leathers and wool, Canada tried to flinch away once more, but was held in place yet again by Russia’s firm grip in his hair. The look in Russia’s eyes was almost fond, and Canada felt his heart speed up, the throbbing in his cheek accelerating accordingly. The soft touching moved from Canada’s cheek and down his neck and shoulder’s – Canada went hot and cold alternatively with fear and arousal and he couldn’t look away from Russia, he couldn’t –   
  
Russia leaned forward and Canada’s shoulder jerked reflexively as Russia leaned into his ear. “ _Mui mojem igriet kak ti hotchet, dorogoy_ ,” the Russian whispered, each syllable incomprehensible and insidious, slithering into the Canadian’s ear like something wet and cold, and Canada’s arousal couldn’t decide if it wanted to die or grow. “ _Ya zniyo shto ti hotch, y bodou dite tebe. Ah, moy malinki Amerikanetz, ya lubyu tebe._ ”  
  
It was entirely possible that America understood Russian, Canada thought distantly as Russia pulled away from his ear and took Canada’s lips in a kiss that was so tender that it stole Canada’s breath away – entirely at odds with the continued throbbing in his cheek and the slow, spreading pain. Canada, however, most certainly did not understand the Russian’s native tongue, the only word rendering itself comprehensible was  _Amerikanetz_.  
  
_America. America. America._  
  
Canada closed his eyes in shame at the repeating word in his head, made even more shameful by the fact that he’d played right into this. Russia pulled away with that slow kind smile again, the hand in Canada’s hair loosening as Russia stood up, leaving Canada disheveled and kneeling on the floor.  
  
Movement on the left and Canada’s eyes followed it – and there it was, the pipe.  
  
The world swam.  
  
_Stupid,_  Canada thought, his arms going weak at the sight of the faucet, weaker still as the Russian adjusted his grip and smiled again, the shiny metal pipe made so by Russia’s grip rubbing it smooth over the years.  _Stupid, stupid --_  
  
And it was there, the tiny echo in the back of his head, the one that America’s people seemed to have no shame in saying brashly with that hint of derision that drove Canada crazy, more at the constant dismissal in the tone than the actual words.  
  
But it was the words that were true at the moment, as Russia smiled and the pipe rose and Canada realized that he was still half-hard of all things and Russia thought that Canada was a nation possessed of freakish strength and oh God Canada was suspended between mortal fear and arousal.  
  
America’s voice echoed in his head and Canada had never so hopelessly agreed with anything more.  
  
_You stupid Canuck_.

The world froze in place as Canada, locked in his kneeling position on the floor, stared up at Russia’s rising pipe like a condemned prisoner might watch the ratcheting of the guillotine. Russia was gripping the weapon at the soldered joint where pipe met faucet, and once the pipe had rose to the point where if Russia had swung it likely would have shattered the Canadian’s skull, Russia paused.  
  
In a quick easy movement, the pipe rested back against the Russian’s shoulder, cradled like a rifle held by a soldier at attention.  
  
Canada’s blood thudded in his ears.  
  
Russia laughed.   
  
Canada hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it expelled forcefully from burning lungs, red spots dancing in front of his vision from the strain.  
  
The Russian bent down and suddenly his violet eyes seemed to swallow the world. Canada’s eyes shot over to the resting pipe out of sheer reaction, causing Russia to smile and stroke his chin with such wide, gentle fingertips. The Russian’s voice lowered to a low, cold, dark Siberian whisper, the same desolate noise the Canadian knew in his own most desolate territories. “Your fear is sexy,” the Russian told Canada’s ear, a sentence that would have been laughable had it not the Russian’s sharp edged accent powering the words.  
  
Instead Canada shuddered, and flinched hard away when the pipe moved, but it wasn’t moving toward him – the pipe stretched over Canada’s shoulder and tapped against the door, which had been open to the hallway this entire time.  
  
A sharp flare of shock went through Canada at that – God, anybody could have walked by and seen – but it died with the  _click_  of the door, the drop of the guillotine, and that was it – there was no escape.  
  
No escape other than the truth, but if there was one thing on this green earth that Canada feared more than the pipe it was the truth, so the pipe it would be. Russia’s deceptively soft gaze pinned him in place and smiled.  
  
Fear, then, and then arousal, and then the thought of America like this, the terror, the inability to move, looking up at Russia with the despair of no escape –  
  
And that was what made him hard, and the shame that hit from that was so great that he almost missed the touch of the pipe against his right cheek.  
  
Almost.

Russia made a tisking noise, twisting the threaded end of the pipe gently against Canada’s cheek, the rough metal tickling the skin there slightly, the imperfections in the thread scratching at his jawline. “So quiet today, America! I look forward each day to the beauty of your poetry, da? I always love your… wits.”  
  
_Witticisms_ , Canada’s mind corrected immediately, but his lips parted as the pipe traveled lazily down his face and rested against the swell of his bottom lip. Russia stepped closer, then, his free hand engulfing the Canadian’s jaw in a strong grip and Canada’s breath stilled in his throat at the touch, at the pipe, at the ache of his knees, at his brother shutting up for once due to a hand at his throat and a pipe at his neck-  
  
“But your mouth is made…” the Russian crooned, interrupting Canada’s thoughts, “for better things…”  
  
Canada wasn’t quite expecting it but wasn’t entirely surprised when the pipe twisted against his bottom lip and slid into his mouth, the thick taste of oil and metal sharp against his tongue, the threads harsh against the roof of his mouth. Canada held the pipe in his mouth obediently, strung between horror, shame, and total relief that the pipe hadn’t embedded itself in his skull.  
  
Russia, however, didn’t seem pleased at his lack of enthusiasm. With a sharp tug the pipe came out of Canada’s mouth with a soft ‘pop’ and another burst of pain as the hand that had been gripping his jaw pulled away only to slap him.  
  
The slap hadn’t been as hard as the backhand was prior, but any blow from the nation in front of him was still  _powerful_  - it drove him to the side and Russia’s hand fisted the front of his shirt, pulling him forward, and replacing the pipe in his mouth so harshly Canada gagged.  
  
“Suck,” the Russian ordered, and Canada complied, lips and suction coming at once, sucking like his life depended on it.  
  
“Good  _boy_ ,” Russia crooned at him, sounding positively like he was talking to his favorite pet dog. “More.”  
  
At that Canada surged forward onto the pipe desperately, his head bobbing back and forth, pulling the metal deeper and deeper into his mouth until he felt the threads brushing the back of his throat and his lips mouthed desperately along the endless length. Saliva escaped out of the corners of his mouth, spurred on by the bitter tang of metal.  
  
Oh, God, how many times had America done this?   
  
Canada moaned, the metal vibrating dangerously against the soft skin in the back of his throat, against the pain from Russia striking him, against the raging hardness between his legs and the need for relief, the  _need_.  
  
When Canada’s hand unconsciously snaked down between his legs, however, the pipe was pulled so quickly from his mouth that it nearly knocked out a tooth – before he could recover from the sudden absence of metal Russia landed a kick to Canada’ stomach, causing the Canadian to fall on his side, gasping weakly, arousal half dead once more.  
  
While Canada wheezed for air, curled to protect his stomach, he felt the Russian’s shadow over him as the other approached – it made him hot, it made him cold… when Canada opened his eyes the Russian was holding the pipe down and at an angle. Canada watched his own spittle drip from the end of it.  
  
“Strip,” the shadow ordered.

Canada only hesitated a moment, transfixed by the way his pulse seemed to overtake his entire body, the slide of his saliva off the side of the pipe and the quickening of his breath at the order, but the moment of hesitation was enough for the Russian to take action.  
  
Russia raised his boot and Canada flinched, but instead of aiming a kick at Canada’s chest the square-toed shoe shoved harshly against the Canadian’s shoulder, sending him flat on his back with a soft noise. Canada’s knees were still loosely curled up in a fetal position from the kick to his stomach, but when Russia aimed his foot back Canada forced them to unknot and lay straight down.  
  
An amused noise from Russia then, either at his obedience or his haste, and the square of the boot slid in the space between two of the buttons holding the front of his shirt together – Canada’s red tie having been knocked askew – and the pipe wedged itself next to the point of the shoe stretching the seam of his shirt.  
  
A moment when the relative warmth of the pipe against Canada’s skin was surprising, and then with a quick flick of Russia’s wrist the buttons were flying left and right, the shirt being ripped apart by the force of Russia’s foot on one side and the unyielding pipe on the other, and Canada’s breath caught in his throat as the cold air assaulted his skin.  
  
Russia had both feet planted squarely on either side of the Canadian’s hips now, the pipe end coming to rest less than an inch from Canada’s ear. Canada’s eyes darted over to that forbidding piece of metal for a moment, only to be distracted when his tie was  _yanked_  at one end so brutally that it tightened like a noose and caused his breath to freeze in his throat for an entirely different reason.  
  
Russia’s hand on the tie pulled him back over and up, forced Canada’s eyes to meet his like he had forced the air out of Canada’s throat, eyes purple and wide and insane.  
  
“ _Now_ , America,” Russia whispered, the breath cold against Canada’s face, and Canada wanted to cry again but instead his hands were working of their own volition, unbuckling, unzipping, his thumbs hooking into his pants and underwear, pulling them down so quickly they got tangled with his shoes, but he had to get them off,  _off_ \--  
  
And then he was naked but for the tie, which was still too tight yet Russia forced his front four fingers under the band that tortured Canada’s throat before curling his hand into a fist and hauling Canada up to a standing position, up to his toes.  
  
Much farther and Canada would be hanging desperately from his neck like a condemned man, and Canada could feel his heart surge with panic and his hands pawed uselessly against the Russian’s fist at his throat.  
  
The world was graying out. No doubt, had he been  _really_  America he would have been able to throw a punch, land a kick that would send Russia through the wall. But he  _wasn’t_ , he  _wasn’t_ , any punch he threw would be absorbed by the width of Siberia and the impossible strength in the heart of Moscow.  
  
It wasn’t that Canada didn’t have his own strength – but it was a drop of water in the ocean compared to the insane physical capabilities of his brother. It would be nothing against a country that was used to standing toe to toe with Alfred, head to head and fearless for sixty years.  
  
“Please,” Canada gasped against the loss of air, the vertigo, the nakedness, the sweat that was beginning to break out all over his body only to chill in the air and expose him further still, “ _Please_ -“  
  
Russia scowled and threw him, the tie unraveling with the movement.

Canada went half-flying, and was barely able to raise his hands to protect himself from colliding with the doorframe where bedroom met bathroom; his head bounced off his hands he had thrown in front of his face. It didn’t stop him from getting the wind knocked out of him by the wall, but it at least kept him from bashing his head in. He was mildly surprised his glasses were still on.

Russia, of course, was on him immediately, one hand fisting in his hair and wrenching his head sideways in a cruel angle, the other one reaching around to grab at his neck. Russia’s bulk pushed against him from behind, pinning him up against the doorframe, one foot on the cold tiles of the bathroom, the other on the roughness of hotel carpet. Canada gasped softly at the feel of leather and wool and buttons pressing into his naked back, his body trembling of its own accord out of his vulnerability, the hand at his neck tight and threatening.

All of this, and Canada could still feel his erection stirring back to life, pressed between his stomach and the cool paint of the doorframe before him. 

He moaned.

Russia’s hand tightened at his neck, his lips warm and menacing against Canada’s ear, nearly horizontal due to the angle at which the Russian was holding Canada’s head. “You do not fight me,” Russia rumbled against his skin, lips flicking at the shell of his ear. “You will let me have you as you are?”

The hand loosened at his neck and started to stroke its way down Canada’s trembling body, all of him laid bare for Russia’s plundering. The hand slid down Canada’s front, and the Canadian thought he would incinerate on the spot as one of Russia’s long, cold fingers trailed across his nipple.

“Such a  _whore_ ,” Russia said, the sparkles in his voice returning with glee when he apparently realized that Canada was not going to fight him. 

Instead, Canada bit his lip when Russia’s hand closed over his genitals – it wasn’t so much of a touch to encourage pleasure but rather of an ownership touch. It was a warning, the large hand threatening to crush but still playful at the moment. 

Canada felt himself start to leak against the Russian’s hand and closed his eyes.

Canada couldn’t even think about America. This was almost too much to handle as it was.

“You don’t even talk,” Russia continued, the hand resting over Canada’s cock patting slightly, fondly. “Would you beg?”

Canada’s breathing accelerated.

“I think you might,” Russia continued in his sing-song way, the hand holding Canada’s hair releasing. Canada knew without looking that Russia was going for the pipe, but what he didn’t –

Their bodies rearranged slightly – Russia still held Canada immobile with his bulk, but something cold, hard, and rough pressed against his backside. Two fingers on either side of his ass split him open, and Canada gasped loudly against the touch of cold metal against his entrance.

_That’ll tear me to shreds_ , Canada realized, more cold sweat beading to run down his back, only to soak into Russia’s wools. Canada didn’t know how Russia could stand to be wearing so many layers – the Canadian thought he was going to burn up. No lubrication, the pipe twisting against the sensitive skin nearly bringing him to tears.

“Fight me, America,” Russia purred into the Canadian’s ear. “Fight me for honor – or beg for me to take it away.”

Canada made a choked noise as the pipe pressed more insistently against him. 

Fight. Fight Russia. Alone.

Right.

Instinctively, Canada made a weak motion backwards, pressing into Russia. It was like pressing against a brick wall made of flesh; the only give the other nation offered was that of skin.

America, briefly then – would he fight? Canada was pretty sure he knew the answer, but it was one he couldn’t give.

 

“Please,” he gasped after a moment, when the very first thread of the pipe threatened to breech him. “Please.”

Russia made a rumbling noise, then, almost like he was considering something. The pipe stilled in its motions. “Please…?”

Canada felt sweat dripping down the side of his face. “Please don’t.”

At that, Russia pushed the pipe harder, forcing entrance, and Canada screamed against the hand that Russia clamped over his mouth just in time to muffle the noise. Canada’s body took over and started struggling desperately, but it was entirely fruitless against the weight and bulk of Russia.

Russia tisked against Canada’s muffled noises of panic and his movements away from the pipe. “You had better be being specific,” Russia said, his hand tightening on the pipe that was between Canada’s legs. 

Cold shame that turned hot lanced through Canada’s body, but the need to get away from the cold, hard, sharp, unyielding  _thing_  between his legs was so much greater and oh God was he  _still_  hard? “Please don’t fuck me with the pipe,” he plead in a quick outburst, trembling, tears threatening. A lower voice, a whisper, his head bowed against the doorframe, a prayer. “Please don’t fuck me with the pipe.”

Russia didn’t move at all for a moment, and then slowly – actually, quite carefully – removed the threads of the pipe from Canada’s body. Canada nearly passed out from relief.

He quickly came back to when Russia turned him around so they could be face to face. Russia had his head cocked, fixing Canada with an almost curious gaze as if-

Canada’s heart thudded.

Russia leaned forward and caught Canada’s mouth in a kiss so sweet that Canada shook, afraid to do anything but accept the tenderness, and he moaned when Russia leaned the pipe against the wall and favored Canada’s body with the caress of both hands.

“So needy,” Russia rumbled against Canada’s mouth, before taking his lips once more, as if Canada were a vodka bottle to be sipped from. “So… unwilling to defend yourself.”

Canada gasped into the next kiss, eager for Russia’s hands, his feet rising from the ground – Russia had him pinned in place, anyhow – so he could squeeze the larger nation between his hips, pulling Russia closer, the peel and stick of leather obscene and arousing against his inner thighs, his erection surging to life and pressed between their bodies.

This, then, was beautiful – as was the thought of his brother pinned likewise, drawing the affection and gentleness out of Russia so easily; as was the thought of America holding him like this, smaller than Russia yet impossibly strong, eyes blue and demanding, hands taking thoughtlessly and giving endlessly. Even the thought of America being the one pinned beneath Canada, giving up his hold on the strength that held him physically superior, willingly submitting to Canada’s desires, held captive by their mutual need and want.

And love.

“America,” Russia whispered against Canada’s parted lips, both shattering and emboldening all illusions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations at the end.

Russia made an amused noise in the back of his throat, then, and Canada was pressed so closely up against the other nation the sound rocked through his body with the force of an avalanche. Canada shivered again, wanting Russia to take his mouth once more, wanting his heart not to hammer straight out of his chest. He could feel the blood pulsing through his erection, his cock pinned between Russia’s clothed chest and his own stomach, and wondered distantly if Russia was getting off on this at all. With so many layers between Canada and the Russian, it was impossible to tell.

“Would you defend the others, though?” Russia asked against Canada’s parted mouth, Russia’s lips gliding up the side of Canada’s face to rumble low against the lobe of Canada’s ear. “What would you be doing, America, if I should take your England?”

Oh God, Canada thought distantly, feeling his pulse speed up, feeling his blood race and his irises widen. Russia smiled then – all teeth, all menace – and before Canada knew it he was flying through the air again, away from the wall, away from Russia, only to land square in the middle of the bed, his glasses finally knocked off his face from the collision with the mattress.

Canada’s hand shot out for his glasses, but he stilled when Russia’s pipe came to rest against the wrist of the outstretched hand, an unspoken warning. Canada hated being without his glasses – he was nearly blind, and the room appeared around him like menacing lumps against a blurry background, Russia’s hazy movements made more unsettling by the fact that Canada couldn’t see them clearly.

America was the same way. Russia likely knew this.

“What if,” Russia began, the pipe moving from Canada’s wrist to trail down along his arm and the angles of his body, the light touch drawing goosebumps in its wake like a wave, “I went to his country and… he’s such a small man, da?”

The pipe continued it’s movement down the Canadian’s calf and didn’t hesitate at all when it crested the bottom of his foot, simply skimming along the inside of the calf and the inner thigh with utter impunity. 

“So small,” Russia said above Canada, an almost hypnotic quality to his voice. “I could crush him between my hands, pin him down below me… he was once your master, but now he is nothing but political connections underneath your umbrella... if he had to fight me without you, he would submit to me... Spread.”

Canada had been listening so intently he hadn’t realized that the pipe had stopped just below his balls. Digging his teeth into his lower lip Canada obeyed, parting his legs, gasping slightly when the edge of the pipe grazed the sensitive skin there.

Was this what America and Russia talked about in bed? World domination?

“Would it make you angry?” Russia went on, the pipe relentless in its movement, its teasing. Canada wasn’t bound but might as well have been, being that one of the most powerful quasi-psychotic countries in the world literally had him by the balls. “Would you fight me then, if England was beneath me, crying for your help while I took him, made him bend?”

Yes, yes, America would be angry. America the hero, America the righteous son. Canada squirmed as the pipe slid beneath his balls, lifting them on the rounded edge of the metal as if they were goods to be weighted.

Or maybe—

“Or maybe you would like?” Russia went on, seemingly oblivious. “Maybe you would like to watch while I bent him, made him be not so much a gentleman. Maybe you would help me, and not him?”

And there was a thought. Russia and America, united, taking over the world. By force.

Canada’s cock twitched visibly, sending spatters of precome to lace his stomach. Russia laughed.

“You do like!” Russia crowed, obviously thrilled. “All right, we will take your England, your former master, we will take him – I will have him from behind and you can push his head down onto your cock until he gags.”

America, Canada though distantly, was going to kill him.

But he couldn’t care, he couldn’t, the thought of England spread out under the might of Russia and America combined, manipulating England’s body while the former empire plead, on his knees, for mercy that wouldn’t come… of pipes and America’s hand deceptively gentle against England’s jawline, pulling his former father-figure forward, a thumb pressing against England’s lips as a precursor, his other hand working open his jeans. Russia pushing England forward while America pulled, aligning his cockhead with the tight bow of England’s mouth and pushing until the island nation relented, parting his lips to let America have his mouth, submitting to the strength of the son, sucking America in down to the root.

Russia stepping forward, his bulk forcing England’s bent head further onto America’s cock, America reaching greedily for Russia, pulling their mouths together while England moaned beneath—

Canada was going to come. He could feel it. The pipe had moved on to his stomach, swirling lazily in the cooling precome that had collected there, smearing it along Canada’s skin. The electricity built in his spine, his overheated body, and Russia’s low chuckle only—

“And what about your brother?” Russia asked quietly, in a voice that was all forest and ice, the dark cold parts of the world where no mortal humans dare to tread.

Canada was going to come, but instead his body froze on those words and settled for another steady rain of precome on his stomach – Canada curled his toes and held on.

Russia giggled, gleeful. “I know you’re twisted, America,” Russia taunted, sing-song and sparkles back in his voice and oh God Canada was going to come, “You, the world’s hero… all you want is for me to tell you how I will take your family.”

Another harsh breath expelled from Canada’s lungs – his vision swam. He was going to come, America was going to kill him, Russia was going to kill him, and Canada was a sick fuck who pretended to be his brother in order for Russia to tell Canada how Russia was going to fuck him.

Oh God, he was going to come.

The bed dipped as Russia removed the pipe and crawled on top of Canada instead, his heaviness pushing Canada into the mattress, the extra weight on his cock making Canada keen and Russia emit another one of those low, ominous chuckles.

“Maybe I’d pretend I thought he was you,” Russia said quietly, each word dropping like a stone into Canada’s ears. “Maybe I’d throw him and beat him and pretend I didn’t understand why he wasn’t fighting me. He’s so quiet, your braht – but I am thinking I can have him scream.”

Canada’s eyes were closed: all that existed was Russia’s voice and the thud of his pulse, which was flashing red before his eyes.

Russia pressed closer. “Or maybe… your brother is so sweet, so polite, da? Maybe instead I would hold him down, give him pleasure, make him scream and cry and swear for it.”

It was almost an out of body experience: Canada bound, open, helpless, Russia’s hands over every inch of him, Russia’s mouth devouring all of him, teasing, touching, laughing. Canada’s head thrown back, mouth open, incomprehensible noises falling from his lips as Russia made him scream all for the ears of America, and America alone—

“Or maybe,” Russia continued, voice so low that Canada could barely hear him over the roaring of his own ears and the thud of his pulse in his cock, “You could have all of him, all of Canada to yourself, just like you used to want, all of him given over to you, intent on your desire alone-“

There was a pause, an unfurling of orgasm, and Canada was rapidly losing the ability to think, caught in a whirlwind of images that were blending Canada’s mortal fear of being swallowed by his southern neighbor alongside the deliciousness of such vulnerability and America’s blue eyes, bright, angry, demanding and soft and his hands all over Canada’s skin, exploring those frozen places no man nor nation would go. The warmth of America’s voice and breath and those hands that wreaked such harm yet meant so well.

“As long as,” Russia breathed from somewhere, anywhere, “it is for my eyes, as well.”

Canada came, his body throwing itself upward of its own volition to collide with Russia’s like a car against a cement wall and it hurt so Canada did it again, feeling his seed coat his stomach and Russia’s front at the same time; his jaw flexed and a thin whine escaped and his body wanted to curl in on itself but couldn’t – Russia was forcing him flat.

The aftershocks hit like a freight train and left Canada floating - Russia shifting above him didn’t register for a moment, but the soft fingers trailing along his jaw did.

This will work out, Canada told himself firmly, stubbornly refusing to give in to the panic that threatened now that he wasn’t so fevered, He will think I’m America, he will leave, it will be odd for a week or two but then--

Canada’s eyes opened to see Russia looking down at him, a line as thin as gossamer between the larger nation’s brows, the concern on his face both alien and reassuring at the same time.

“Alfred,” Russia said gently, none of the steel or ice in his voice, but rather something warm and quiet, like the inside of a cabin snug against the storm and able to weather anything the world dared throw at it, “are you okay?”

More quiet, then, Russia’s concerned eyes and two loud beats of Canada’s heart.

What have I done?

Canada burst into tears.

Russia jerked in surprise at the sudden onslaught of tears and sobbing, his body lifting off of Canada’s immediately, giving him room to breathe.

This did nothing to alleviate Canada’s crying; in fact, the sudden ability to take in air at full capacity only made him sob harder, cold air rushing to inhabit the space the Russian had vacated. Exposed, Canada’s hands moved of their own unwilling accord: one hand crossed over his front in an attempt to hide his nakedness while the other covered his face in shame.

“Shto eta kakoe?” Russia said above him, the query a low, distant confused whisper. “America, skaji mena…”

Russia’s voice died off as Canada’s cries got a little more hysterical at the word “America,” and a low noise rumbled above the Canadian, cutting through his tears.

“Else ti panimayish pa ryuski, skaji mena,” Russia said sharply.

Canada knew this was it: he tried to curl onto his side to protect his body and hide his face but Russia’s hand shot out and grabbed his chin, halting him.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded, the steel back in his voice, brooking no argument.

Canada gasped weakly for air, his throat threatening to close over on itself, and for one moment he considered refusing – but that would merely mean making another asinine decision and he had already done enough damage for one day.

His eyes fluttered open. Thanks to his natural blindness and the tears everything above him was a vague blur, but Russia’s fingers on his jaw tightened, and Canada knew he’d seen all he needed to know.

Canada’s touch had been all wrong, his words had been all wrong, the color of his eyes was all wrong.

Canada was all wrong.

Canada’s hand moved to cover his own mouth, moved to stifle his sobbing and quiet himself, stop the shameful noises from coming. Russia still hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t said anything, and Canada’s eyes shuttered shut again, feeling his nostrils flare as his body struggled to get enough oxygen.

He couldn’t die. He was a nation. Russia wouldn’t kill him. America would eventually realize he was missing and might take exception to it if Russia had killed him. But it could get ugly. And if it did, Canada was going to weather it with as much dignity as being naked and guilty would allow – the world started to get hazier at the edges as he forced his breathing to slow, eyes starting to roll in the back of his head slightly.

“You will stay here,” Russia ordered from above him, and then there was a quick shift in weight and Russia was off the bed. Canada still had one hand pressed over his mouth, still had his eyes closed – but he could hear Russia’s heavy footsteps across the carpet. There was a soft noise of cloth against leather – probably Russia wiping the remnants of Canada’s seed off of his coat – and then the hotel room clicked open and shut.

Alone with his shame, Canada curled up in the center of America’s bed, cold and covered in his own semen. He could feel his glasses just within reach but made no move to take them – his head throbbed, he pressed his fingers to his temples, he breathed.

He breathed.

# # #

America stepped off of the elevator, balancing an enormous stack of paperwork tucked under one arm, Canada’s now-cold coffee in the other.

It turned out that the transparencies he’d needed were actually in his other folder, the one he hadn’t bothered to look into because there was no way he’d put the transparencies in there.

Of course, that’s exactly where they had been. The way England had rolled his eyes in the back of his head at that had made America want to hit him, but he’d refrained and the presentation had gone better than expected. 

Or rather, it went as they all went, ending in screaming arguments and declarations of stupidity flinging from all sides. America’s head ached, but at least it was over.

Nobody had noticed that Canada hadn’t come back from fetching America’s transparencies. America himself hadn’t even realized until a lull in the screaming match when his eye happened to catch the cold cup of coffee marking the spot where Canada wasn’t. It had struck him as somewhat odd at the time, but the arguments started up again and he’d forgotten in the fray.

Who he was really looking forward to seeing was Russia – Russia who had favored him with a dark smile from the other side of the conference table and slid out of his seat just before Prussia had been set to go and talk about something-or-other-that-was-likely-totally-pointless.

It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time that Russia and America had slipped out of a meeting for a quickie. Usually Russia would excuse himself first, lumbering out of the room with that bland look on his face that no other nation dared question. America would float out ten minutes on the dot after.

Of course, this fooled no one. But who was going to stand up against both Russia and America?

Nobody, America thought with smug satisfaction, readjusting his pile of papers. He was going to his room to drop off the paperwork before going to find Canada – sure, the coffee might be cold, but that’s what microwaves were for, right?

Unfortunately, at this particular meeting, Germany seemed to have a bigger bug than usual up his ass and insisted that America take the next presentation slot as soon as Russia had left the room. A match for the might of America and Russia Germany might not be, but he was a crafty bastard and never had taken kindly to nations disappearing in the middle of conferences to take advantage of each other’s company.

It wasn’t as if America and Russia were the only ones, America thought unhappily as he ambled down the hotel hallway. France hardly even put up a pretense anymore – the aptly nicknamed Nation of Love was pretty much absent for the entirety of most conferences these days, save the ones that were actually important.

But it had been strange when Russia hadn’t come back. America shrugged to himself. After he found Canada, delivered his coffee, and made the best appeasements he could to his brother, who would likely spend the next couple of days wallowing in a passive-aggressive snit no matter what America said, he’d go see where Russia was lurking and make the wait up to him.

Whatever.

What America didn’t expect was to find Russia half-running out from around the corner where his hotel room was located, his coat flapping behind him like wings, his face so white that it was doing a great impression of a Siberian winter.

America stopped in his tracks – the last time he’d seen the Russian look like that was, well –

December 25, 1991, America thought, the day when the USSR fell to its knees and collapsed and was no more. The date when America reached out and pulled Russia to its disbelieving, haunted, suspicious feet.

America’s mouth opened to the visage in front of him - what happened, what’s wrong, let me help - but nothing came out as Russia barreled into him, causing America’s paperwork to explode across the carpeted hallway, the cup of coffee sloshing half out over his hand and Russia scooped him up, pivoted them into common room of the lobby with the soda machines and ice dispensers, and pinned America between the Coke machine and his body.

America gasped as Russia’s mouth fell onto his like a starving man upon a Thanksgiving spread. The kiss was passionate but a strange passion – when America and Russia coupled it was a meeting of the Titans, all power and teeth and endless, wonderful struggle, but this was desperate, wanting, upset.

America’s free hand reached up and cupped the curve of Russia’s jaw, pulling the other out of the kiss, surprised. Russia was shaking, the bellows of his breath unsteady and too fast, his gaze glassy, shaken.

Russia was shaken. Russia, the nation who had looked America in his nuclear eyes and laughed, was shaken.

“Vanya,” America breathed, shocked. “Vanya, shto eta?”

Russia shook his head, leaning into the hand that held his jaw. This was also unsettling – not to say that America and Russia couldn’t be tender to each other but the occasions were rare, fleeting, and extraordinarily private. It did not happen in hotel hallways against a rumbling pop machine.

“I was being in your room,” Russia said quietly, his voice steady even though the hands that rested on America’s hips trembled like thunder in the Alps, “I was being in your room and thinking you were coming but…”

America’s mouth opened to apologize and call Germany a dick, but Russia was being too weird now for flippancy. “But…?” America asked, once the pause had pulled out too long.

“I found you in your room,” Russia continued, his voice going flat, clinical – reporting the death of millions in Leningrad, reporting the frozen soldiers and the starving civilians in his long, bloody history, “I found you and I started to have you, but… you were strange, you were quiet, you were begging, you were…”

America blinked, leaning back into the soda machine. “Ivan, I was stuck at the meeting because Germany had a moment of epic dickitude-“ Russia blinked, he still wasn’t used to America’s occasional inventive turn of phrase, “-and I couldn’t get out. I was presenting at the meeting.”

Russia took a deep, soft breath. “Your brother was in your room, Alfred.”

America blinked.

“I was not knowing,” Russia breathed, his eyes closing. “I was not knowing, Alfred, I caught him from behind, and he did not fight, he did not tell me no, I did not know why-“

The back of America’s head thumped weakly against the plastic façade of the pop machine, feeling distant for a moment. His free hand came up to his mouth in horror.

“…is he all right?” America asked softly, through his fingers, through his shock. He was fully aware of the way that he and Russia liked their sex. They were both men of the fight, and both possessed an unquenchable love of antagonism that America knew his brother did not have – and he was also aware that both Russia and him possessed obscene levels of strength that both liked to use.

Sometimes it felt like the entire world was made of cardboard to America – he was forever breaking things accidentally and hurting people inadvertently with his touches. One of the best things about Russia was his ability to take and give with as much fervor as America could, but he was aware that their passion combined could probably kill.

Russia hesitated for a moment. “He is not hurting,” the other nation said, “He did not fight, and I did not take him. But I think… he is in your room, I left him there, he was crying.”

Leaving somebody crying in a room was not America’s definition of “not hurting,” and he felt it, then – whether it was due to Canada being his twin or sharing such a long border America knew not, but he had a certain affinity for Canada when he cared to tap into it. There was distress coming from the north, an ache, a sorrow.

America turned his gaze back to Russia, his breath accelerating slightly. Canada pulled at him, and yet so did Russia, the larger nation’s pain nearly tangible beneath him. Russia’s eyes opened and met with America’s, entreating.

When Moscow was falling apart and Ottawa burning, where did America start?

You split, America thought, feeling distant and too close at the same time, you divide.

America realized that Russia was waiting for his judgment. Even though America’s hands shook, he pressed one over Russia’s heart, the weight of his palm pushing against the layers of cotton and wool and leather the Russian wrapped himself in.

“Vanya,” America whispered, one hand brushing back the Russian’s hair. He snapped back to himself at that moment, when the ice machine roared into life and realized that Russia had him pinned up against a Coke machine in the hallway in the midst of America’s forgotten paperwork. “Vanya, let’s go back-“ No, Canada was in America’s room, Canada who was alone, and America’s heart twisted up at that, but Russia was here, he couldn’t save Ottawa if he was standing in the middle of a collapsing Moscow, “-take me to your room, we have to talk.”

Russia’s eyes glazed a moment and his hands tightened on America’s body before releasing, taking a deep breath. “No.”

America was barely able to get his feet back under him before Russia stepped away. Confused, America stepped forward again but Russia stepped back once more. “Russia, what--“

“Your brother, you must—“ Russia took another sharp breath, obviously willing himself to calm down and it made America ache, “Family, America.”

America paused halfway before reaching out for Russia, more at the impenetrable look in Russia’s eyes than anything else. America knew when it came down to the cards where Russia’s loyalties would lie – and it wasn’t with him.

Russia’s hand went to the scarf at his throat – as if thinking of the very same thing – and turned away. 

Dividing had never worked very well for America before – and he had the scars to prove it. He thought of Canada, Canada and his yellow ribbons, Canada grinning and raising the American flag in Windsor while America repaid the favor on the other side of the river with the maple leaf, Canada with his quiet reassurance and gentle consideration when America ached with weariness.

A lump rose in his throat, then – America would always run to put out the fires in Ottawa first, even if Ottawa had burned him once before. 

His hand reached out and touched the Russian’s shoulder. “I’ll come for you.” A threat, a promise.

Though Russia didn’t turn his head, America could feel the other’s sardonic lip twist through his body. Russia had learned from Lenin and Stalin alike, had watched Rasputin and listened to Pushkin with rapture; Russia had suffered through winter and Mongols and war, and Moscow would stand until Washington arrived.

“I know,” Russia said, stepping out of the vending machine area in a wave of leather and wool and winter, and disappearing around the corner.

America’s breath hitched for a second before he dropped the coffee he hadn’t realized he still held, and ran for Ottawa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shto eta kakoe? - "What kind is it/What is this?"
> 
> America, skaji mena… - America, tell me...
> 
> Else ti panimayish pa ryuski, skaji mena. - If you understand Russian, tell me.

**Author's Note:**

> Kakoe Amerikanetz - "What an American." In Russian, "What an ____" is used to express general bemusement/impression.
> 
> Mui mojem igriet kak ti hotchet, dorogoy - "We can play as you want, precious."
> 
> Ya zniyo shto ti hotch, y bodou dite tebe. Ah, moy malinki Amerikanetz, ya lubyu tebe. - "I know what you want, and I'll give it to you. Ah, my little American, I love you."
> 
> I would have written that in Cyrillic, but I figure it wouldn't do much for people who, well, can't read Cyrillic. But rendering Russian words into English looks weird. Ach, the trials of fiction writing.


End file.
